More to a vestibule for the dying
More to the communion
More of obsession’s admiration
More to those who fly
More to those who do not ponder why
…
Over and above…I keep the gods lowercase
Over and above, the stone dead and gone
…
Less of a willingness to comply
Less of puppy’s in the window
Less photographic harmony
Less bouncing joy on bended knee
…
“Let me go” I say, more or less
There is a quiet place, more or less
Oh, sporadic the occasions of an unwanted guest
I put anger in my pocket way down deep…
where as I lion, I hope, it will wane and sleep.
Atop of my head and nuzzled down tight with a knit cap. annoyance is no longer a friend.
I try to hide it behind the saltines and the mean drive by’s in the mind…
Anger’s persistence is not kind.
Into the woods, a daily walk.
Yet, a clandestine obscurity invades what I have not.
I have not the restfulness that wills itself to my soul.
Everywhere, everywhere, barren holes.
I will get to the end of my reach…one of these minutes.
Indignation will put the well-traveled deep…until weathered with forgiveness.
If this, single entity, called forgiveness…
were a book.
It would be open…
amassed with complex, simple and congeal words.
Each letter…sharp as, the finest blade.
Still…the voyage of…forgetting…would not be saved.
I could, we could, the winds could…embody the same chapter…
The same verse…over and over.
Understanding would stand alone…misspelled.
Ill behaved.
Oh, how I have hoped…to pen the story of a world…
‘giving back all that it took.’
Chapters filled with mended hearts.
A romantic plot where love builds a home.
And, pain is driven be car…
far, far, away.
But vision is lost…current day…in the burning building of thought.
Leaving a closed book…
With hope being accosted.
A victim of high cost.
Shallow is the heartbeat that rages a distended river.
Darkened and hearkened, by space and time.
A silence to the mossy flow.
And, weathered innocence the only true forgiver.
Amidst the cool watery breath.
Laps of a sauntering solitude…
Await a crested wake.
Pockets of hushed calm within the raging river.
Weathered innocence the only true forgiver.
Random thoughts, poems, and opinions. *Opinions are subject to change. - Nathan Harrell
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I am Brangien [Brangaine] of Weisefort, Ireland, lady-in-waiting to my cousin Isolde, who became promised to King Marc of Cornwall. His nephew Tristan escorted us to England by ship. But Tristan and Isolde fell in love at sea. As ye may know, or will find out, they cite the philter they drank as the cause, over which I was supposed to keep vigil. I would like to share my perspective of how I have created good in the world through my herbs and observations. There is much to tell, including how I have adopted this odd language. In good time. My life is in God’s hands. –Inspired by the modern French translations of the Tristan and Isolde texts
And he saith vnto them, Follow mee: and I will make you fishers of men. Matthew 4:19 (1611 KJV)
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